


Unmade

by wndrw8



Category: Elementary (TV)
Genre: F/M, angry!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-10
Updated: 2013-02-10
Packaged: 2017-11-28 20:24:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,296
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/678546
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wndrw8/pseuds/wndrw8
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Watson has small hands, delicate hands. They are compact and contained like she is and there is nothing he would like more than to break those hands.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmade

Sherlock is an angry person. Rage consumes him, seethes inside of him through the greater part of each day. Fury concealed in snarky comments, a flicker of the eyes, a quick lick of the lips. He is so angry every day that the layers have built upon layers and he hides deep down beneath it, sheltered from the real world and its disappointments.  

Watson is supposed to make things better. They are supposed to work through his issues but he has never been one to share intimate details. They clash.  

For him things always seem to get worse before they get better.

 

Watson has small hands, delicate hands. They are compact and contained like she is and there is nothing he would like more than to break those hands; to break the contained aura that engulfs her like thickened a mist of cigarette smoke. He hates her unremitting self-confidence. Her assuredness. She is calm. There is no anger within those brown eyes, not even the slightest bit of discomfort or irritation.

He grows to despise her for this.

During the long nights he spends listening to her breathe through the dilapidated walls of the brownstone, he becomes painfully aware of the fact that he has also grown quite obsessed with her.

“Watson,” he whispers at night. He seethes it, his tongue slipping across his teeth in a hiss that echoes through the room.

 

They spend their days in a wild spur of heated words—snapping, arguing. Watson manages to keep her cool for the first month but in the second, when he mentions her failed career in surgery, she bites back. Her cheeks flush. Thin lips purse together before spitting a poorly thought out retort and in this moment he is happier than he has been in years.

She turns. Her jet black hair kicks up the air around him, smelling faintly of lavender and mousse. He sees her narrow shoulders go rigid. Watson is tiny. He could easily wrap his hands around her neck, wrap them around her waist or consume her wrist in his palm with a pinch of his index finger and thumb. He could smother her.

It would be so easy but that’s not the point.

The point is to unmake her.

 

He watches her movements carefully the next week. They have no cases and stay confined within the house due to onslaughts of freezing rain that throw the city in a dim of fog and silence. He plays games, basks in the quiet of the night when she’s sleeping.

There is a scar on her hip. A thin, horizontal line that is white and raised just a millimeter, so faint that he almost doesn’t see it but it’s there. The thin line of a Swiss army knife. Applied with haste, jagged, perhaps in the heat of the moment. It is a delicious little blemish on otherwise flawless skin. He catches himself staring as she reaches into the top cabinet of the kitchen cupboard, her t-shirt rising just the slightest to reveal it.

She turns. Catches him eying her and meets his gaze. Normally her response would be something brash and bold but the blush is already forming in her neck and it is more than enough of a confirmation.

“I assume you already know,” she says finally.

Sherlock tilts his head, savoring the discomfort that radiates from her body. “Never assume, Watson.” He waits a beat as she sets the bowl on the counter. “I want you to tell me about it.”

“This isn’t about what you want.”

“Oh, but it is.”

There is a twitch in her top lip. Almost imperceptible to an untrained eye but to him it is an 18-wheeler thundering through a sleepy town at night. It screams at him. Begs him to notice, to reach inside her and tug on the strings that hint at unraveling.

All of a sudden, unmaking seems possible.

“What was it, Watson? A late night in medical school? I imagine you were inebriated when it happened. You couldn’t remember his face. You couldn’t offer the police any assistance and his identity was never determined. Am I correct?”

He waits. The last word from his lips seems to flitter around in the room and he bounces on the balls of his feet, practically unable to contain his excitement at the look of subtle horror that is slipping across her face. Her beautiful features marred by regret. By disgust. By contempt. He feels a stirring between his legs.

“By God, Watson, you look almost human.”

The twitch again. “Let’s not do this, Sherlock. I know your game.”

“By all means…”

He holds his hand out like he is ushering her through an open door. She stares at him, so taken back by the meticulousness of his menacing. It almost looks like she’s going cry. Like she wants to ask him why he’s chosen the scar, why he even has to do this at all.

The vulnerability in her eyes is so uncharacteristic.

He smiles as she brushes past him, her breaths coming unevenly in the silence of space. Sherlock lets his body go rigid. He pushes back as she sidesteps him. “I’m a simple man, Watson. I know exactly what I want.”

“Yes, but you never seem to know when to stop.”

 

He has always been an angry person; Sherlock’s first memories are of anger. He remembers being forced into private school, being slapped by the teachers when he refused to take part in their idiotic lessons.

The headmaster with the blue uniform and cane lingers in his memories even now.

Scars fade over time but the emotions stay the same.

 

Sherlock wakes up in the middle of the night to see Watson standing at his bedside. She is in an oversized Mets shirt that cuts off somewhere just below the crux of her thighs. His eyes scan her body, taking in the tension, the clenched hands and glazed eyes. Sleep deprived. The anger radiates from her skin. Black hair tousled, lips red from rubbing.

“My dear Watson… difficulties sleeping?”

“Don’t ‘my dear Watson’ me.”

“I cannot fathom why—”

He stops as those delicate fingers of hers snatch the covers from his body. The cool of the night air settles on his skin and he is excited in a way he’s never been before. He sits up. She grabs a fistful of his t-shirt and yanks him in until they are face to face, mere centimeters from one another. “You don’t assume things about me. Okay? I don’t push you about Irene, so you don’t push me about the scar.”

He licks his lips, tastes her sweat and her fear and her anger. “Very well.”

“Sherlock—”

“Contrary to belief, I do know when enough is enough. With you, at least.”

He watches as she stills. Her hips fall back onto the mattress, the lightness of her weight tugging at him. Her eyes flicker down, still heated, then back up to his. A moment passes and he feels like she is trying to speak but can’t. At last she turns, shifts her weight as to move away but he catches her wrist. His hand easily encircles it. He squeezes tight. Feels her pulse quicken and jump as their skin presses together.

“Was there something else?”

The look on her face is indescribable. She wrenches her hand from his grasp, a sigh of disgust bursting through the reddened lips and it brings a sly smile to his face as she exits the room; a flustered mess, irritated, stunned, uncomfortable.

 

When he touches himself later that night he thinks of the face she made and the way her skin burned so fiercely under his touch.

It is a far better release than he ever thought possible.

 

 

 

 

 

 


End file.
